You stood outside the restaurant, arms crossed tightly over your chest, even though it wasn’t cold. The early evening breeze stirred your hair, warm and lazy, filled with the smells of sweets and butterbeer drifting from nearby shops. Hogsmeade was alive around you — students laughing, couples weaving between storefronts hand-in-hand, friends ducking into pubs for something to eat.

And you were waiting.

Still waiting.

Fred was supposed to meet you here nearly forty minutes ago.

You glanced down the cobblestone street again, scanning for that mess of red hair, that signature lopsided grin, that chaotic bounce in his step. Nothing. Just more passing groups of students — some looking your way curiously, others too wrapped up in each other to notice you standing alone.

You shifted your weight and looked down at yourself, brushing a wrinkle from the front of your skirt. The skirt he had asked you to wear.

“Wear that black one,” Fred had said yesterday, his hands warm on your hips as he leaned in close, “the one that makes it hard for me to think straight.” He’d said it with that teasing grin of his, eyes trailing over you like you were something worth staring at. “Dinner in Hogsmeade. Just us. No interruptions. Meet me there at six.”

You had smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

You had taken your time getting ready, picked out that exact skirt, styled your hair the way he liked, even worn the lipgloss you knew he liked.

You had been excited. Nervous, even. A real date. Just you and Fred, finally doing something that wasn’t sneaking off between classes or exchanging flirty notes during classes.

And now you were here.

Alone.

You checked the time again. Your fingers trembled just slightly, and you curled them into a fist.

Maybe he was held up.

Maybe something happened — something urgent, something serious.

You bit the inside of your cheek and looked back toward the street again, willing him to appear. You imagined him running down the path, out of breath, full of apologies, pulling you into one of those dramatic, laughing hugs that made everything else disappear.

But no one came.

The warmth in your chest — that bright, hopeful thing — started to flicker and fade. It was being replaced with something heavier. Something tighter. Embarrassment curled low in your stomach.

He wasn’t coming.

You straightened your posture, smoothed your skirt, and turned on your heel.

You didn’t want to be the girl standing around like she’d been forgotten. Like she’d gotten her hopes up for nothing.

The walk back to Hogwarts felt longer than usual. The light breeze now felt too cold, and the ache behind your ribs pressed in tighter with every step. Anger was starting to rise, creeping in past the hurt like smoke through a crack in the door.

By the time you climbed through the portrait hole and into the Gryffindor common room, your jaw was set and your hands clenched.

And there he was.

Fred WeasIey, lounging on the couch near the fire, head tipped back in a laugh that was too loud, too careless.

Angelina sat beside him, too close. Her smile was bright. His arm was slung lazily along the back of the couch, his fingers resting behind her neck. Her hand brushed his knee, and he didn’t move away.

It hit you like a punch to the ribs.

He hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t gotten distracted or pulled into something with George or even detention.

He just never planned to come.

Because he’d been here all along.

With her.